


Don't Talk

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Captivity, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Injury, Johncroft, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 17:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: Mycroft is kidnapped and tortured for information but he doesn’t break, so when they threaten to hurt someone dear to him instead, he expects to see Sherlock or Anthea and is understandably flabbergasted when they bring in John Watson instead.





	Don't Talk

 

Mycroft never thought the day would come when he would ever qualify pain as boring, but he did. For that matter, he never thought the day would come when he would have to endure so much pain, but he had to. His security detail was only human, and thus, prone to failure. Assigning more men to look after him did not make them more efficient. Efficiency did not multiply, it did not even add up. His bodyguards simply reached a maximum efficiency level and plateaued there. Eventually, fatally, one of his numerous enemies was bound to rise just a little above that limit and snatch him away.

This time, his foe had simply been better, cleverer and reached higher levels than his own men. It happened now and again, albeit… never to this extent. If he were to disappear, Mycroft was usually located quite quickly.

Alas, not this time, and the lack of a daring rescue was starting to worry him.

Staring at the bloody mess that used to be his slightly less dominant hand, he wasn't sure he would be able to hold out if they started on the other. The pain was like fire, and he knew he'd be cradling that minced appendage protectively against him if it weren't shackled to the table.

In comparison, the beatings and attempts to mentally break his psyche by keeping him awake and starving him had been laughable. Little better than bullying executed by amateurs with more brawn than brains. He hadn't said a word. Not one.

Which explained why they'd brought in a professional: Mr Bland. It wasn't his real name, of course, but a torturer would hardly introduce himself to his victim to be. It would be a tad tacky to do so and this man was not: he was as efficient and sharp as his tools. Despite that, Mr Bland earned his name by looking so very average. Even Mycroft would never have guessed his profession if he'd met him under different circumstances. He might have deduced dentist, and wouldn't have been so far off given some of his tools shared a startling resemblance with those he had glimpsed the last time he had a tooth fixed.

Going to the dentist, something he had always abhorred, would be a walk in the park now compared to Mr Bland's abominable farce of a manicure. And even with his torturer gone from view, the pain had remained.

The pain… No!

Mycroft could not allow himself to think on it, he had to shut the pain out or he might say anything they wanted if only they stopped. The problem was that Mycroft knew perfectly well what happened to prisoners who gave their tormentors what they wanted: death. Granted, he wouldn't be in pain anymore, but death was so… final. He had too much to do, too many responsibilities only he could handle to allow himself to die. 

Resisting was the only possible choice really, so Mycroft clung to his information and clamped his mouth shut, making all and any use of his mind palace to keep on to his resolve and sanity.

 

A loud clang in the building somewhere made him jump in his seat, which he promptly regretted when pain flared anew from his mangled hand, fire coursing up through his arm. It was agony… No.

Mycroft slammed that door shut and slowly breathed in and out, distancing himself from his own body. If only his consciousness could drift away for a while, just until he was found again.

Anthea should have located him by now, and if not, Sherlock would have jumped at the occasion to find him just to rub his nose in it and weasel favours out of him. But neither had…

 

His head was yanked up by his hair and Mycroft blinked in the too bright light. He'd somehow fallen asleep, which seemed to have infuriated Mr Bland judging by his red face and spittle flying his way like tiny fireworks. The pain in his scalp felt good though since it diverted his attention away from the roaring ache of his former hand. He smiled blandly at Mr Bland, who let go of his hair in disgust.

“Told you he's not right in the head,” Mr Bland said, addressing a darkened corner. 

Mycroft glimpsed that way, disappointed when all he could make out was the steady red dot of the security camera he had spotted on his first day here.  He still had no idea who had kidnapped him. He could extrapolate from the questions he was asked but that still left far too many suspects.

“It's a waste of my bloody time,” Mr Bland muttered under his breath this time, his back turned to the camera. 

They at least agreed on one point, although Mycroft did not like the other man's speculative look over one bit. Considering, calculating… People who made a living of torturing information out of other people were not idiotic mountains of muscle as some might think. On the contrary, it was an art that required finesse and a thorough knowledge of the human body. How else could you afflict so much pain without killing your subject? And Mr Bland was putting that brain of his to use. He was looking for his weakest spot. The hands had been an obvious choice, given his line of work, but it was a sacrifice Mycroft could accept and Mr Bland realised it too. His brain and tongue were safe, as they were both needed to part with his information, but everything else was fair game, he supposed. So what would he choose next? The ears? He needed at least one to hear their questions. The eyes? But one of them was already swollen shut from a previous beating, and seeing what was done to you or about to happen to you was as much a part of the torture as the actual thing so that was out of the question too. The genitals maybe? Or had his nickname, the Iceman, reached far and wide already?

So much suspense. Mycroft would almost feel entertained if one of his appendages’ integrity wasn't on the line.

“You're a lost cause, you know that?” Mr Bland said matter of factly. “I wouldn't mind working on you for free once they're done with you. There has got to be something to break you and I'd love to find out what it is.”

Mycroft’s smile returned and the torturer snorted in disgust.

“My employer has other ideas, though. Not that I care. I get paid double.”

That  _ did _ wipe the smile from Mycroft’s face. 

_ Double _ .  _ Another person? Pressure point? Who? Anthea? She should have been secured in a bunker when I was taken. No. Impossible. But who else? _

With mounting horror, Mycroft came to the conclusion the only other close association he had, more or less publicly, was that of his brother. And if Sherlock had been snooping around here, looking for him…

“I see you understand,” Mr Bland said. “You have been under heavy surveillance for a while now, so my employer secured someone  _ dear _ to you, just in case you proved as stubborn as he feared.”

Maybe it was just a bluff. If they had Sherlock, why hadn't they just started there instead of wasting time on him? He could take the pain, or pretend to, but he doubted he could accept being the cause of any pain inflicted on his baby brother… His role was to protect him after all. It always had been. That's what big brothers were for.

Maybe it was a bluff.

“Don't be mistaken: I  _ could  _ have broken you if I had free reign, but I've been given strict instructions not to break you so completely you'd be useless. We wouldn't want to mess up the data that's stored up… here.” the man said, poking his gloved finger at Mycroft’s forehead, a most annoying gesture, and so uncouth. He wanted to wipe the slimy sensation it left on his skin, but alas, he was unable to even do such a thing, shackled as he was.

“Ah,” Mr Bland said, cocking his head to the side. “That'll be our guest of honour then.”

Several pairs of footsteps could be heard, faint through the heavy doors but echoing in the vast empty building in such a way they seemed to be coming from everywhere. Mycroft hung his head, praying it wasn’t Sherlock when he knew the very act of praying wouldn’t change a thing, but hoping against hope nevertheless.

The metal door squeaked open and Mycroft closed his eyes, a last ditch effort to reject reality, no matter how futile he knew the gesture to be. 

_ Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. Anyone but him. Even Anthea. At least, she knows what she signed up for. _

“Well?” Bland said impatiently. “Aren't you two lovebirds going to say hello?”

Mycroft was certain he must have misunderstood. Or did they not know the nature of his relationship to Sherlock? They couldn't be that stupid. Or was it really Anthea and they were woefully misinformed?

But, as he raised his head and locked eyes with the newcomer, Mycroft realised that yes, they could be exactly that stupid.

“Mycroft?” John asked, sounding both groggy and a bit bewildered. Chances were high he had been drugged when they took him, but he’d still put up a fight judging by the state of his clothing and the scrapes on his face and fists. 

Mycroft stared at John. Always such a surprising man. Always right where you didn't expect him to be. But what could Mycroft possibly answer to John? I know I'm not at my best at the moment but I assure you it's me? Or greet him with a simple hello and welcome to my nightmare you absolutely don't belong to? Sarcasm was probably not the answer here however, so instead, he looked to Mr Bland, schooling his face to look mildly affronted.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

His torturer looked from him to John, who was being secured to the other end of the table in the same fashion as him: uncomfortable chair and shackled hands.

“I've seen the pictures. Don't try to pull one over on me,” Mr Bland countered.

Pictures?

“You two. Always meeting in secret at odd hours, at his place or in that posh club or yours. He's your bit of rough on the side, ain't he? It's pretty obvious so there's no point in denying it. I don't care, that's not what I want to know.”

Mycroft was about to part with a scathing retort but John beat him to it with a burst of laughter he’d probably been trying to keep in check for a while now.

“You think… he… and I… Are you  _ mad _ ?” John got out in between chuckles.

“I must admit your deductive abilities are more lacking than I thought, but that's a common issue for people who over-specialise.”

His torturer frowned from one to the other, then sighed loudly as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It won't be as effective, but you two obviously know each other, so It'll have to suffice,” he concluded then reached for his toolkit.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mycroft snapped. “He's just an informant, and not a very good one at that.”

“Yet you meet him regularly and personally?” Mr Bland asked with a shark like smile, all teeth and no fun.

Mycroft cursed and blamed the state of his body for such a poor cover up and lame attempt to get John out of harm's way, one that had effectively turned against him. Them. But he couldn't very well explain that John was, for all intents and purposes, his brother's babysitter. That might draw attention to Sherlock and put him in danger too.

“Nice try,” Mr Bland said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “Now, shall we get started?”

 

Mycroft panicked when Mr Bland inspected John, his eyes calculating which spot to start working on, and he inadvertently pulled on his shackles, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through every nerve of his body. John glanced at him, down at his hand and winced in sympathy. Then he simply held his gaze for a few seconds before nodding and returning his attention to the man sizing him up as if he was a piece of prime meat laid out in a butcher's shop.

What did he mean by that gesture? Not to worry?  Ridiculous. Surely, he must have realised by now what was going to happen to him. He'd even just glanced at a sample of Bland's handy work, no pun intended. And if he hadn't put two and two together yet, surely the apparition of a gleaming scalpel in Mr Bland’s hand was a dead give away.

“There's something about you…” their torturer muttered before slicing through jumper, shirt and skin, revealing John's upper left shoulder and the top left of his chest as the clothes fell away. John hissed but was as powerless as Mycroft to do anything to defend himself.

“Aha. I knew it,” Mr Bland said, eyeing the old scar marring John's skin. “Bullet wound. Interesting. You being left handed too. Bad luck that. I bet it still hurts.”

Bland pushed his thumb into the centre of the scar, but John merely gritted his teeth, his eyes darkening with the shadows of repressed anger. They'd always been so expressive, those eyes, ever since their first meeting, and now, he couldn't help but picture them dimming until only a blank, empty gaze was left. Because of him. Sherlock would never forgive him.

“Stubborn one too, aren't you?” Bland added before putting his scalpel to use again. “But you'll scream. They all do.”

That last was for Mycroft’s benefit. A poorly veiled jab at his pride.

But what did he care in the face of the spectacle taking place right in front of him? Given the right circumstances, pride had about as much value as the dirt on the soles of his shoes. He'd give it up gladly, but not the dangerous state secrets he kept. They were locked securely in his mind, granted, but they were not his to give away. Not even when John was being delicately carved, one slice at a time, a mere foot away from him. The sight of the blood did not bother him too much, nor the smell as he had been too accustomed to it by now, even if it had only been his own. The biggest hurdle, what chipped away at his resolve ever so slowly but efficiently, was the pain etched into John’s features and the small sounds that escaped him despite the way his jaw was clenched and his thin lips pressed together.

Mycroft soon found himself sweating, his own muscles bunched up in tight knots as if the torture was being inflicted on him again instead of John, but it was working, damn Bland and his superior knowledge of torture, he couldn't  _ not _ say anything. Mr Bland would hurt every inch of John if he had to, then ask his bloody questions over and over again until even John would beg him to talk. However, right now, every time Mycroft opened his mouth, John would shout at him to shut up before resuming his curses, threats, whimpers and struggles, leading his own mental battle against his torturer.

And Mycroft always did, the coward that he was. Even if John was suffering because of his silence. The guilt piled on top of him, one up at a time. He knew this was the easy way out: letting John be the cause of his own torture when Mycroft was ready to stop it. He tried not to show it and maybe he thought he was succeeding, but he couldn't display his blank face, not now, not even if it was a question of life and death. Mr Bland was right: he had managed to break him, or at least a part of him.

“Stop!” Mycroft shouted.

“No!” John shot back. “I swear if you speak now… after what he did to you…”

Mycroft would never know the end of that sentence because their torturer backhanded John so hard at the interruption that he fell out of the chair and hit his head on the table, hanging halfway down by his shackles.

“I can't believe this,” Bland muttered and checked whether John had really managed to knock himself unconscious in the middle of his torture session. By accident no less.

“In all my years…” 

And that was a yes, if his frustrated kick to John's stomach was any indication. Torture was of no use if the subject was too unconscious to enjoy it and share his screams.

“Maybe some time out will do you some good,” Mr Bland decided and packed his tools. “We've been working all day after all and I feel a bit peckish myself.”

The man knocked on the door in a cadence, a code, which Mycroft memorised out of habit although they would change it again by tomorrow. Then came the muscle to unshackle them, John falling with a meaty thump the rest of the way to the floor. He waited for the door to close again before scuttling over to John, hating that he found some measure of comfort in not being alone anymore, even in hell.

_ Misery loves company. _

The least he could do was patch up the cuts Bland had inflicted to his shoulder, which was nigh impossible with next to no material and only the one hand, but the deeper wounds were now packed at least, with his monogrammed handkerchief he found in his vest’s pocket, which should limit blood loss. He carefully smoothed John’s shredded clothes so as to cover him back up and laid his hand atop it all, applying as much pressure as he dared. Gravity would help too, so Mycroft carefully laid him straight on his back, giving up his thigh for a cushion as he slumped against a wall. 

He found himself cradling his mangled hand, as expected. Upon closer inspection, he doubted he'd manage to make it any better himself without fainting on the spot, so he gave up and took refuge in his mind palace. He had to keep his mind occupied elsewhere, far away from the beacon of pain that used to be his hand.

 

Mycroft woke up screaming. Again. It was becoming such a familiar part of his routine, he might even miss it in the future. If he had one, that is.

Except this time the pain was followed by a gentle touch and a soothing voice, completely at odds with his regular jailors who usually grunted and wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole.

“It's okay. I just reset your finger. Breath Mycroft. There you go. Should be a bit better.”

John. Mycroft had hoped that had just been his imagination running wild. A dream, or rather a nightmare summoning a familiar face to share the pain. But there he was, the good doctor's solid presence, and Mycroft wasn't sure whether to feel dread or relief. Guilt on the other hand was there aplenty, so thick Mycroft thought he might choke on it. He observed John instead, bent as he was over his injured hand, bandaging it with…

“Is that my tie?” he asked incredulously while his good hand reached for his neck, finding it naked.

“Never thought I'd find an actual use for the things.”

Such disparage didn't even deserve an answer so Mycroft sniffed his contempt. A tie was certainly better than the frumpy jumpers the other man was so inexplicably fond off.

He never saw the next manipulation coming and was too surprised to even shout out in pain, glaring instead at John whose only defense was a half hearted shrug.

“I said I reset  _ one _ of your fingers,” he explained, looping a shred of his former tie around his now straightened finger and his tie pin. Looking closer, the first one had been strapped to a pen, plastic, John's. “Just so you know, there's a third.”

Mycroft sighed but gave a curt nod, gritting his teeth against the pain but satisfied when no unseemly sound escaped his lips.

“He really did a number on you. I'm not sure you'll regain full dexterity even if you had received immediate treatment.

“I'll just assign one of my minions to type for me,” Mycroft deadpanned, smugly satisfied when he managed to coax a smile out of John.

“Isn't that a waste of government funds?” John teased back. “But more seriously, do you have more injuries that need taken care off.”

Mycroft waved off his concern. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger and thirst, none of which he could do anything about. He was happy enough his hand was not hurting quite as much as it had before, although he still considered just hacking it off to get rid of the constant throb. No, what he really wanted was information.

“Tell me what happened since I was taken. I imagine Sherlock was informed, at the very least.”

John nodded. Anthea had been the one to inform them the next day when it became obvious they'd lost him for good. She said it was to foist additional security on Sherlock but they all knew it was to get the detective on the case.

“He's been looking for you ever since, but there was little to go on. If they snatched you the way they did me, I'm not surprised. They're good. Really good. I imagine what they're after is pretty big?”

Mycroft nodded, tight lipped.

“That's what I thought. You can't talk. Whatever they do to me, whatever I say, even if I beg… don't talk.”

His grimace didn't go unnoticed.

“You know it's the only way. And once you give in, we're dead anyway.”

“Maybe you'll want the release of death. Yesterday was only a sample of Mr Bland’s talents. He can get quite creative.”

“You know his name?’

“No. I gave him one. Makes him seem less… ominous, I suppose.”

“Suits him.”

Mycroft acknowledged the compliment then returned to his contemplations after the tidbits of information John had provided him. As he'd thought, Sherlock was looking for him and he was doubly motivated now that his precious blogger was missing too. Maybe he'd put in a bit more effort. No one, no matter how good, could kidnap two people in broad daylight in the middle of London without leaving a single clue behind. Once was luck, twice was impossible. Sherlock would find them and then… then Mycroft would personally annihilate Mr Bland. Or hire him. He hadn't quite decided yet.

 

Speaking of the devil… Loud metallic clangs echoed around them, the door would open any second now. Mycroft found John's eyes and received a firm nod.

“Don't talk,” he reaffirmed.

It made sense, but the responsibility… for the first time in his life, Mycroft didn't relish it. It was such a weight on his conscience. Why? He'd been the cause of a lot more damage, pain and death before, but it had always been remote, faceless, just numbers. This was personal. He knew John and had grown to respect him, if nothing else. Not to mention that if they did get out of this, he would have to face him again. Could he do so if John was crippled or disfigured because of him?

The hired muscles corralled them back to their respective chairs facing each other and shackled them in. John put up a fight and had injured one of his handlers bad enough that he left with a limp. Impressive. Everyone always underestimated him, most likely because of the frumpy jumpers. Did he use them as camouflage? No. No one would go so far as to wear ugly, scratchy wool jumpers all year round just to have an edge, no matter how committed. John just had a terrible fashion sense but it was by far his worse flaw so he supposed it could be forgiven.

Mr Bland stepped in now that they were not a threat to his person, and as usual, set his torturer’s kit on the table between them with a loud thump, then opened it, putting his instruments on display, his gloved fingers caressing them with a disturbing longing before he finally addressed them.

“How are we doing today?” he asked.

He finally tore his eyes away from the gleaming metal to really look them over this time and tsked at their efforts to apply first aid to each others wounds, as if he couldn't understand why they would want to mess with his work of art.

Mycroft stiffened against the chair’s hard back, fearing for an instant that he would rip apart John's efforts to save his fingers because he knew exactly how atrocious the pain would be if he tore the makeshift splints off, but of course he wasn't the object of his focus anymore. John was now the one who had that dubious honor. On the bright side, tearing off the handkerchief Mycroft had used to stem the blood loss from the scalpel cuts on his shoulder was not all that painful. The sight of it however… John’s old scar had been confined to the small nook where shoulder met arm and it had healed over well despite the mess of raised criss-crossing tissue. Now, however, after Mr Bland’s care from the day previous, it seemed to have exploded outwards in a network of angry red lines going as far his nipple, to the hollow of his throat and over the curve of his shoulder. Mycroft closed his eyes at the terrible sight, but reopened them immediately because he was not going to cower away from this if John wasn’t. 

“Beautiful,” Mr Bland said in that creepy voice of his as he trailed his fingers over his handiwork. “I don’t think it can be improved upon. Sometimes, it is best to know when to stop. So what shall be next? I’m quite fond of ears myself to be honest. Have myself a little collection.”

His gloved hand now followed the side of his neck until it latched onto the lobe of John’s ear, twisting it painfully before letting it go.

“No?”

Mr Bland was watching him, spying his reactions to know where to hit for maximum effect. Keeping his face as bland as their torturer’s was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do. He couldn’t twitch, could hardly breathe and most definitely could not let his eyes drift towards John’s hands, nor his eyes, even as he felt them burning holes into him. John couldn’t live if he was deprived of either, like most people, but him most of all given his occupations. He stared at Mr Bland instead and smiled when the man’s mouth curled in annoyance.

“Maybe something else then. Something recreational to loosen you up. Water? That’s always a bit risky. Acid? Electricity? Oh. Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”

Mycroft let his eyes slide over to John’s, noting a flash of hurt there. He shook his head minutely, hoping he would understand Bland was just playing with them, trying to wedge some inkling of mistrust between them. But, if had to be honest, electricity would range from painful to unbearable depending on the tool and voltage, but it wouldn’t leave long term damage if applied within reason, which wasn’t however a guarantee with their current torturer. Better, if anything, than losing his fingers or eyes to one of his blades.

Better for John in the long run, but however much brave and resilient the man was, he couldn’t keep from screaming when Mr Bland applied a cattle prod to various parts of his body, testing, teasing, searching for his weak spot, the one that would get him the begging he so craved. Those screams would probably haunt Mycroft for the rest of his life and he might have given up something, some piece of information that wasn’t as vital or as important if they would just stop, but John would glare at him whenever he tried to make a sound, mouthing “Don’t talk!” as if his voice was all spent on his anguished screams and he couldn’t spare more of it for him, for telling him not to be stupid, that they hadn’t gone this far for nothing, so Mycroft bit his tongue, sometimes literally and kept quiet, enduring the screams, the way John’s jaw clenched shut with such force when he tried not too that Mycroft feared his teeth would shatter under the strain, how the muscles in John’s neck seemed to swell and stretch impossibly far, all of his being distorted by the pain. And Mycroft just sat there, watching it all.

“It seems a shame,” Mr Bland finally said when even he was sweating from his work. “But needs must.”

Mycroft had worried this might come to pass. John had just understood his intention by the panicked look in his eyes and the way he was trying to edge his injured shoulder away from the cattle prod. But John couldn’t go far, he couldn’t do much, and only a small whimper escaped him as he tried.

“Stop!” Mycroft ordered. “Don’t!”

“Mycroft,” John muttered, his voice hoarse before he merely shook his head again.

Bland had paused during their little exchange, but in seeing Mycroft wouldn't give in after all, he smiled toothily as if he was almost relieved he wouldn't deprive him of his next move and he pressed the cattle prod right in the centre of the red web upon John's shoulder.

The scream was silent, which was almost worse, it seemed unreal yet he could see it fall from his lips, rise in pitch then break off suddenly. John had passed out again.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Bland commented, then looked at his watch. “Little blighter held up longer than I thought he would. But you should really have reconsidered talking. He’s getting impatient.”

The glance towards the red dot of the camera spoke volumes. Mycroft noted the used of the masculine form but knew it could have just been used to be misleading. Chances were, Bland only knew his employer as a string of anonymous numbers wiring money into his bank account. It could be Santa Claus or the tooth fairy for all he knew. Whoever it was, however, they obviously had something planned for tomorrow and all Mycroft could do was pray to a higher power he didn’t believe in that they both made it through another day.

 

Mycroft slept that night, curled around John for warmth and in the hope that he would know if something was wrong with his comparison of misfortune, whether respiratory distress, convulsion, or even a heart attack given the strain it had been put under. The closer he was, the more warning he’d get but the night passed by smoothly and as usual, the doctor was up before him. And he was… stretching. It made sense, he supposed. His muscles had to be as stiff as a board after yesterday.

“Morning,” John said, his voice still hoarse.

“John,” Mycroft said with a nod. “How are you feeling?”

It could be seen as a stupid question given the circumstances but once more, John knew he didn’t mean it in the polite, empty way everyone used it as nowadays, but as a real need to assess his condition so he could know if he could endure another day under Mr Bland’s ministrations.

“Been better, but I’ll manage. Don't talk. How is your hand?”

“Better, but I think my doctor skimped on the pain medication.”

“Can’t blame the bloke. Probably needs it more than you.”

Mycroft wasn’t going to argue that, but he didn’t get a chance to anyway because the metal door chose that moment to creak open once more. This time, John didn’t try fighting against the hired muscle as they marched him to the chair. Saving up his strength, Mycroft deduced, then wondered if they would really make it through this day. What was Sherlock doing? He should be here already. It’s not like they’d been whisked off to another country, they were still in London and he always bragged about knowing every nook and cranny in this city, so what was holding him up?

Mr Bland walked in when the guards retreated, as usual, but this time, he wasn’t carrying his heavy leather bag, just a syringe and two small glass bottles instead. He didn’t look happy, but Mycroft wasn’t sure how to interpret that since he was happiest when he could inflict pain.

“Told you,” he muttered as way of greeting. “It’s an all or nothing today, gents. We’ll be performing the classical Cleopatra drama. I’m not a fan myself, but I have to admit it does give results.”

John’s furrowed brow indicated he didn’t understand, not completely. He no doubt had a broad idea, what with today’s equipment but he didn’t  _ realize _ this was a life or death situation, as dire as having a gun to your head and the bullet coming out ever so slowly to lodge itself in your brain. Fatal. Terminal.

“So, Mr Holmes, I assume you’re familiar with the Egyptian Cobra? Yes? Good. Given your friend’s weight and overall health, I give him three minutes tops,” he said and injected the venom in John’s arm before either of them could protest.

Bland then set an old egg timer between them, every tiny tick it made like a nail being hammered in John’s coffin as they watched each other in horror.

“What do you want?”

“The name of the operative who infiltrated Haddad’s ranks. We know he’s one of yours.”

“Administer the counter first,” Mycroft bargained.

“Mycroft, no,” John said, already breathless from the venom in his system. 

Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if Bland miscalculated the dose he had injected and John's protest was so feeble this time, it was quite easy for him to ignore it.

“I won’t speak unless you do. I do not trust you to do it afterwards.”

The ticking of the egg-timer seemed to be accelerating, so was his heart rate, so was John’s breathing. Mr Bland held his gaze for too long, far too long, but then nodded and administered the antivenin. Despite it, it seemed at first that it wasn’t enough or that they were too late, but finally,  _ finally _ , John calmed down and slumped in his chair, his head bowed, chin almost touching his chest. Mycroft felt like he’d just run a marathon when the egg timer rang out, startling him where he sat. The three-minute marathon in hell was over.

“The man you’re looking for calls himself Shafiq Nizar Barsa, he’s an extremely skilled MI6 operative. He won’t break, he won’t bend, so whatever interrogation you cooked up for him is useless.”

Mr Bland turned towards the camera as if awaiting a sign, then pocketed his supplies and left without a word. Soon after, the guards returned with food and water as if they deserved some reward for breaking, then undid their shackles. Mycroft waited until they left before rushing to John’s side, checking his pulse and breathing. He sighed in relief. He was safe.

Tucking John’s arm over his shoulder and supporting him with his own around his waist, Mycroft helped him back to the corner where they slept, which was the cleanest spot of floor in the whole place. A luxury. He helped him lay down, giving up his lap as pillow and making good use of his extra padding once more. Sherlock’s jibes about his weight would never sting quite as much in the future with all the good use he was getting out of it.

“You shouldn’t have,” John said feebly, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes.

His body had gone through quite a shock, again, so it was not surprising. Mycroft glanced towards the camera and its steady red dot across the room but they were more or less hidden by the table and chairs standing in between. Still, distrust, as he knew, was the mother of security, so he leaned over John so neither his lips, nor his words would run the risk of being intercepted by the dark lens.

“I didn’t,” Mycroft confessed, having all the pains in the world not to look too smug.

He should be devastated, after all, to have given up one of his operatives, sealing his fate as sure as if he’d shot him point blank himself.

“I don’t understand,” John said. “Shafiq… something…”

“Yes, him. I suppose they’re about to get rid of one of Haddad’s most loyal supporters. Pity that. I’m sure it will come as a real blow to global weapons trafficking. Might put a dent in the coup Haddad was planning too.”

John just looked at him in puzzlement but Mycroft didn’t begrudge him for not being able to connect the dots just yet. It was a testament to his constitution that he could hold a conversation at all.

“I was just buying us time, John, but Mr Bland will be back, either for revenge if my ruse is discovered, or for more information. Either way, it will not be good. I’m just delaying the inevitable.”

John nodded this time. 

“Better dead later than now. Thank you, Mycroft.”

“For what?” he scoffed. “It is my fault you were brought here in the first place. If they hadn't made such a ridiculous assumption-”

John shook under him and Mycroft glanced down in worry to check him over, only to find out the doctor was actually laughing.

“I can sort of see how they got their wires crossed. It is rather shifty you kidnapping me all the time, taking me to secluded places just to “chat”. Take Sherlock out of the equation and what other explanation is there?”

Mycroft hummed in thought. It still seemed ridiculous from his point of view. It wasn’t as if he ever indulged in liaisons of a romantic or sexual nature before, so the head of this whole operation was either incredibly stupid or particularly misinformed, especially since they didn't seem to even be aware of his ties to Sherlock. Mycroft was still not sure who that person was however. They had been demanding any number of information since his capture, not just about Haddad or the middle east but about operatives all over the world, so someone was most likely trying to ingratiate themself with the people in power, trying to get a foothold in the world's darkest places and most lucrative markets. Someone new who had stayed under his radar up till now, and had just happened to know about him and his wealth of information. But Mycroft refused to be the stepping stone of an upstart criminal kingpin, even if it meant paying for his refusal with his life.

John shuddered beneath him again, but there was no trace of mirth upon his face this time so Mycroft lay his good hand on his forehead, finding it clammy.

“Cold?”

“I'll be alright.”

Mycroft managed to get his vest off and laid it on john despite his protest before cradling him in his arms for additional warmth.

“I can finally put all my vaunted padding to good use.”

“You know sherlock only says that to annoy you. You're perfect.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. He knew he hadn't misheard, but at the same time, it didn't make any sense. First of all, no one was perfect. Certainly not him, and even less so where his appearance was concerned. But John didn't appear to be mocking him. He was drowsy from the venom and antivenin warning in his body, brutally honest if anything, his inhibition temporarily lifted. So that meant John actually found him attractive? Mycroft mentally scoffed at himself. John lived with Sherlock who'd won the lottery in the looks department of genes. Maybe he was confusing them. He didn't know how addled his mind was after all, but he might as well take advantage of it.

“You mean Sherlock?”

John shook with his silent laughter once more.

“Sherlock is pretty, isn't he? Bit over the top, honestly, and he's not handsome. He's… flashy. Like a peacock.”

Mycroft was laughing himself silly on the inside, only a smile made it out on the outside.

“He is rather,” he agreed.

“But you're handsome and full of edges and always so neat. Even now, in this dump, after everything they did. How do you do that?”

Mycroft was at a loss for words. John was obviously more loopy than he’d given him credit for and he was looking at him without an ounce of mockery, waiting for an answer like a beggar for a coin.

“I… er… a good tailor makes all the difference.”

The breath left John in a huff, a silent chuckle, and he closed his eyes, dozing off, hopefully dreaming of a better place. Mycroft looked at him sleep, unable to let go of that modicum of control himself for now. He had already slept yesterday and would sleep again when he had no other choice, hopefully when they were far away from this place. But they were running out if time, the countdown on John’s life had begun.

“Hurry up, Sherlock,” he whispered to the darkness pressing around them, hoping the particles of dust would carry his words to his little brother.

He had hoped they would wait the next day for another session, but he supposed the last one had been rather short, lasting all of three minutes and since Mycroft had began to spill the beans, they were getting greedy for more. He couldn't regret his choice however. Saving John had been paramount and the only possible option he could live with. Now, they would have to suffer the consequences of that choice… His grip tightened around John. The sound of approaching footsteps hadn't roused him, nor the lock being turned, nor the ominous creak of the heavy metal door. Maybe they would leave if their leverage on him was unresponsive, maybe they would just use him instead. He was thinking of the best ways to convince his tormentors to do just this when it suddenly hit him how wrong the hired muscle looked today… mostly because of the lack thereof. Slim, light on their feet, mere shadows, exploring, searching, not moving about as if they owned the place.

“Over here,” Mycroft called and all the shadows homed in on them, becoming more substantial, more human, more familiar as they walked around the table to their dark little island of peace.

Sherlock and Anthea then proceeded to fuss over them so much, it woke John up, and just in time too because Sherlock was becoming positively frantic despite his reassurances that his friend was in no immediate danger.

Followed the humdrum of ambulances, arrests and questioning that Mycroft wanted to overview himself despite Anthea trying to corral him towards the medics. His hand could wait an hour or two more however, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. He wanted to make sure nothing was missed. This was personal now.

 

Days and then weeks past during which he followed up leads until he had a big fat folder of data that needed some legwork to be over and done with. That he could give to Sherlock. He had his own bone to pick with the culprit after all, and it would be a good excuse to drop in unannounced at 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft hadn’t seen John since he had been whisked off to the hospital after their rescue, or to be more precise, he hadn’t seen him in the flesh. He had, however, been keeping an attentive eye on his comings and goings through the CCTV network at his disposal. Just making sure he healed well, didn’t need any help and wasn’t in any more danger. He owed him that much for what he had gone through.

As he walked up the stairs, Mycroft could already hear Sherlock muttering about his being there, so he took a preemptive strike and tossed him the file as soon as he was within sight in the hope he would dispense with the usual insults for once. Sherlock took the bait, diving onto his sofa with the file and reading the documents greedily when he understood what the “case” was. It was more of a “Where’s Wally?” than a “Whodunit?” at this point, but he seemed happy enough to play with his scraps, and it gave Mycroft the perfect opportunity to speak in private with John.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked with a wave towards him, his fingers almost brushing the horrible jumper of the day, but not daring to do more than that.

“Could have been worse. Not pretty to look at though. How about you?” John asked and he had no such restraint about physical contact because he simply grasped his hand to inspect it for himself, his fingers sliding the length of his as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mycroft could feel a faint heat blooming around the stiff collar of his shirt and it was all he could do not to blush or swoon. Thankfully, Sherlock was still too absorbed by the hefty file to pay them any mind, so he was able enjoy the feel of the other man’s touch, his warm skin, his calluses as he turned his hand around in his.

“Better than I hoped. you must have had good doctors. Still doing physical therapy?”

Mycroft grimaced. He had always hated exercise and these session for his hand were no different. They felt pointless and a waste of time even if he had to admit he had noticed an increase in dexterity over time. Anthea didn’t give him any choice in the matter anyway.

“Yeah, don’t worry. No one likes those,” John laughed, understanding quite correctly his meaning as he so often did.

John glanced at Sherlock, then back at him.

“When you’re done… when you’re not so busy, can we meet up? Talk about… what happened.”

Mycroft peered at him. He’d rather not, would prefer to forget the whole ordeal in fact, but he understood John might not have such a luxury. Normal people usually needed to talk about their experiences before they were able to process and assimilate them, which is why humans were such social creatures and why there was such an over-abundance of therapists, the carrion crows of human misery. Besides, Mycroft didn’t truly want to forget the whole experience, he actually cherished snippets of it, although he would never dare admit it to anyone.

“Of course. I will pick you up when we are both available.”

That time came to pass sooner than John expected judging by his surprised, but pleased, expression upon being kidnapped by the familiar black car, but Mycroft simply hadn’t had the patience to wait any longer. He had missed the doctor's presence since they had parted ways upon their rescue. This time however, he had no desire to intimidate John as this meeting had nothing to do with Sherlock, so he took him to a nice little restaurant where they could talk instead. Neither had had dinner yet, John having worked at the surgery all day, so it was a perfectly reasonable location although it could easily be misconstrued as a date. He hoped John didn't notice. 

Once the smalltalk was out if the way and they had food and wine set out in front of them, John looking relaxed and, dare he say, content, Mycroft prepared himself for the awkward part of the soirée which was also the whole point of this meeting.

“You know, I don’t actually remember the rescue all that much. I was a bit out of it by then and Sherlock won’t tell me.”

“That might be because he was acting like a hysterical mother hen when you didn’t wake up at his mere presence. He might not know much about the solar system, but I do believe he thinks you to be his own personal satellite.”

“Don’t I know it,” John muttered with a half-hearted eye-roll.

“There’s not much to tell, to be honest. You were sleeping and I was expecting it to be Mr Bland when the door opened, although not quite so soon and it was Sherlock and Anthea instead.”

“It's just that, before I fell asleep, I seem to remember I came unto you,” John finally said, looking him straight in the eye. Always so brave.

The unexpected confession made him freeze, fork hovering over his plate as he raked his mind for an answer to that. It was true, more or less, it had been compliments more that any real advances. However, John came to the rescue, saving him from any embarrassment.

“But you were too much of a gentleman to take advantage.”

“I would never,” Mycroft agreed with a nod, letting his fork land in the sea of vegetables on his plate.

“Which is why I’m happy to say I haven’t been drugged or had my judgement otherwise impaired in the last twenty four hours,” John added, tapping his fingers pointedly on the rim of his untouched glass of wine.

Mycroft gulped.

“And I took your pulse during your last visit. I do pick up some of Sherlock’s tricks now and then.”

John couldn’t have his intentions any clearer if he’d tried. Mycroft couldn't believe he had been set up for this date when he'd thought he was the one instigating it. They seemed to be on the same page, but Mycroft was still hesitant to take such a leap of faith. This was definitely not his area of expertise, but he trusted John, liked him even, a lot, and was attracted to him like a moth to a flame. A brilliant, warm and hypnotizing flame… but he simply didn’t do this. Relationships. It would be foolish and dangerous, for the both of them, as recent events had just proved. But it was so tempting. He wanted the flame to burn him, consume him, melt the ice that shielded him.

“After what happened, you would still… consider it?”

“We make a good team,” John replied immediately and reached for his hand, mindful of old injuries.

Mycroft let him. It was nice, comforting. He could see how people found strength in others and wondered if the pros outweighed the cons. Then John was drawing patterns on his skin, which caused a ripple effect throughout the rest of his body, a delicious tingle of feeling alive and warm.

They did make a good team in the past, they could make an even better one in the future. Mycroft nodded and John understood. The smile that broke out across his face was bright and blinding and Mycroft now understood why Sherlock would do anything to have it directed at him. John wasn’t Sherlock’s satellite, he was the sun around which the Holmeses revolved. Well, his dear brother was going to have to learn to share. It was about time.

“You’re telling Sherlock about this,” Mycroft warned.

John smirked.

“Depending on how the night goes, I might not even have to say a word.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My first Johncroft! Yay!
> 
> I'm decidedly not in a good mood, thus the darker theme, but you know me, I'm sure it's funny somehow despite it all. I'll let you be judge.


End file.
